


I Am: Jeon Soyeon

by Kaiserrollii



Category: (여자)아이들 | (G)I-DLE
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 06:25:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20187757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiserrollii/pseuds/Kaiserrollii
Summary: When you were five years old, you wanted to be a pirate.When you were eight years old, you wanted to be a ninja.When you were ten years old, you wanted to be a singer.When you were twelve years old, you wanted to be a rapper.When you were thirteen years old, you wanted to be a dancer.When you were fourteen years old, you wanted to be an idol.Now, you are twenty years old.And soon, you will be twenty-one.





	I Am: Jeon Soyeon

**Author's Note:**

> Info/details taken from Soyeon's (G)I-DLE introduction video. Anything that is not explicitly stated in the video is purely my imagination, so of course, don't take it as fact. 
> 
> Happy 21st birthday (in advance), Soyeon!
> 
> Intro video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6KvYHQqq5F8
> 
> (please excuse any spelling and/or grammatical errors)

I Am: Jeon Soyeon

When you were five years old, you wanted to be a pirate. 

You knew an awful lot about pirates—how they sailed the Grand Line, navigated the Reverse Mountain, fought off all kinds of swashbuckling foes—but no matter how hard you wished for them to someday swing by your parents’ dingy, two-bedroom apartment in Gaepo-dong, they never did. Which was a shame, really. You were no Zoro, but you could dual wield a pair of stainless steel chopsticks like there was no tomorrow.  
But pirating around all day was tiring, not to mention dangerous and disruptive to the neighbours, so one day, your mother ushered you into the backseat of the family Hyundai, drove for what felt like centuries towards the Han River, and deposited you into a well-lit dance studio full of dozens of other little girls, all looking equally as confused as you. 

Ballet. That’s what it ended up being. That was how ballet began, and that was how it stayed for the next several years. You’d spend an hour or two in the studio every other day, balleting with your ballet buddies, and then you’d return home to fight off some imaginary enemies with Zoro by your side on the television screen. If you had enough energy left over, you’d warm up your vocal chords in between spoonfuls of rice at the dining table and later perform a sloppy rendition of some self-composed, nonsensical tune while your parents washed the dishes. And by nine, it’d be time for bed because like it or not, you weren’t a pirate yet, so mother’s word was still final. 

***

When you were eight years old, you wanted to be a ninja. 

Elementary school had just began, and the only thing your classmates ever talked about was this Naruto person, whoever that was. You decided to take a look for yourself. And, well, safe to say that a few days later, you no longer wanted to become a pirate.  
Ninjas were cool, lightning fast, and seemed to be a lot more realistic than those superhuman anime pirate warriors, so it wasn’t long before you found yourself tugging on your mother’s elbow, begging her to take you to the nearby stationery store so you could buy a plastic shuriken. The very next day, you discovered that eight-year-old girls in elementary school were not allowed to carry around plastic shurikens, not even ones bought with mother’s approval. 

It got taken away. It also resulted in a strict lecture about the dangers of sharp weaponry. But that was just a small speed bump in your journey to become the ultimate ninja. And ninjas were fast anyway, so speed bumps didn’t matter.

***

When you were ten years old, you wanted to be a singer. 

It was half-past ten on a Saturday night, later than you were usually allowed to stay up, but you were in third grade now, and you had just returned from a successful ballet competition, so you had been rewarded with the chance to sleep whenever you wished for a night. 

You didn’t even mean to switch to that channel—you were just poking around for a late-night Naruto fix—but the second you did, that was it. 

Whatever was onscreen wasn’t ballet—it was a completely different type of dance. It wasn’t some shoddy, post-dinner singing marathon—it was real music, the type you’d hear on the radio and in the grocery stores and in the shopping malls. Real music. Pirates, anime, plastic shurikens, and—now that you really thought about it—even ninjas: those weren’t real. But this was real. And if something was real, that meant it was possible.  
Your parents didn’t ask why you quit ballet. Well, technically they did, but you managed to skirt around giving them a proper answer, so it was basically like they didn’t. What they did ask about, though, and what they kept asking about, is where you’ve been constantly disappearing off to after school.

"A friend’s house," you told them. "I brought my bike. Don’t worry."

It was a half-truth. But a half-truth was better than a full lie, so as you pedalled down the cracked sidewalk of Eonju-ro, backpack knocking against the base of your spine, you only felt a hint of guilt.

The first audition didn’t go well. You were off key: every single note was either too flat or too pitchy. Plus, you were all by your lonesome, which, compared to all the other kids waiting hand-in-hand with their mothers, probably gave off the impression that you were some kind of homeless runaway. Well. Next time, you supposed.

But next time didn’t go well either. And neither did the time after that. Nor the time after that. Nor after that, or that, or that, or even that—the one audition you felt you did at least decently in. That was your closest shot in ten years, and you still fell short of even scraping the very bottom of the barrel. Well. Next time, you supposed.

***

When you were twelve years old, you wanted to be a rapper. 

Not quite, actually. You’ve wanted to be a rapper ever since you decided you wanted to be a singer, so really, you’ve wanted to be a rapper since you were ten years old. But none of that mattered at the end of the day because no one had ever heard you rap before, not your parents, nor your friends, not even the neighbour’s poodle. 

But talent waited for no one. Those thirty failed auditions told you that singing wasn’t the right path for you, but they said nothing about rap. And as far as you knew, you could rap decently well. You had even written a few lines here and there, all tucked away in the confines of your spiral-bound journal. You practiced them whenever your parents went out to run errands. 

Two weeks and three days into eighth grade, you biked forty minutes north to Samseong-dong and rapped one of your handwritten verses in front of three clean-cut, straight-backed men with steepled fingers and no-nonsense expressions. And one month later, when it was obvious that you would never hear back from them, you grit your teeth, tightened the straps of your backpack, and set off again. And again. And again. And eventually, they began nodding. Some even smiled. They called back, slowly, one by one, and they explained how it would happen, how they would take you under their wing for the next five or so years, tinker around with you, fashion you into the ultimate idol, and then, if you were lucky, grant you with a spot in their upcoming cute-concept girl group. 

This was all well and good—you knew that the life of a trainee wasn’t just fun and games—but one thing made you hesitate. Cute. You weren’t a cute person. Back in ballet, they called you stone-faced Soyeon because you refused to smile in sync with the other girls. And you hadn’t exactly gotten any cuter over the years. 

Talent waited for no one. You knew that. But what an awful waste of time that would be if you wasted years and years of your life only to sing songs you didn’t even want to sing.

"Well, Soyeon?" they said. "Will you sign?"

That was a good question. One that most people would probably say yes to. And one that you should probably say yes to. After all, your parents were standing right behind you, flanking you like sentry guards. Surely they wouldn’t be pleased if you said no now. And what an awful waste of time that would be if you chose wrong. 

***

When you were thirteen years old, you wanted to be a dancer. 

By this point, you had managed to attain a bit of street cred to your name—people knew you as that one girl who turned down an offer just because she didn’t want to do aegyo for the next five years—so finding a good dance studio wasn’t at all a problem. In fact, there really weren’t many problems at all, apart from the fact that your grades were beginning to slip, and the brakes on your bike were seizing up with overuse, and your parents had lost all hope of you ever finding a proper job. 

But the dance studio was only a twenty minute ride away, and the people were nice, and you had been promised a spot in the upcoming local competition, so everything was alright to you.

It was, in a way, sort of like going back to your roots, except the type of dancing you did then was ballet, and the type of dancing you did now was quite the opposite. But the days went by in the same sort of mind-numbing way: school, dance, head home and jot down a verse or two, rinse and repeat.  
That left a lot of time for thinking—thinking about things like whether or not you made the right choice, or if a career in dance was even viable, or if that stupid bike brake would ever fix itself.

The answer was no. You were forced to toss out your bike midway through the school year. Asking your parents for money to take the subway everyday wasn’t fun. That upcoming dance competition you were invited to? You seized up, got nervous, basically ruined what little reputation you had. Your so-called "career" in dance had been in shambles ever since. 

And then there was that choice. It had happened nearly a full year ago—you were creeping up on your fourteenth birthday—yet you were just now beginning to experience the sort of reluctant regret that came with admitting you might have been wrong.   
So you made a promise to yourself. The next audition you stumbled across, regardless of what company, what concept, what demands, if they offered, you’d accept. Your pride was not of importance here. Nor were your wants or needs. In fact, you really weren’t even part of the equation at all. The only thing that mattered was if they wanted you. And you would make sure they did. 

***

When you were fourteen years old, you wanted to be an idol. 

It happened at school of all places. You were on your way home from the library when you spotted the Cube audition poster tacked to the window of a popular café. You stood there for a solid three minutes, contemplating, and then you walked the rest of the way home.  
Only to contemplate some more, that is, and more, and more, until it was three days later, and you were sitting alone on a two-hour subway ride to Incheon, trying to hold in what measly breakfast you were able to choke down that morning. 

You did your audition, a few verses from BigBang’s This Love, and the whole thing was a bit hazy: you really couldn’t remember much of it at all. And after the whole thing was well and done, you collapsed into a seat in some nearby bakery, called your parents to tell them where you really went, and then asked for a ride home because you had somehow miscalculated the subway fee, and now your T-Money card was, well, out of money. 

You received a call two weeks later. That very same day, you began prepping for the second audition. And then there were a few more, little things here and there, questions and answers. Eventually, you signed. Not much longer after that, you showed up on Cube Entertainment’s doorstep, suitcase in hand, head held high. 

Ready. 

***

When you were fifteen years old, you wanted to be an idol. 

You were a trainee now; it had taken a solid five months including one final evaluation, but at long last you were in.  
Trainee life was rough, even you couldn’t deny that. You didn’t get to see your parents very often, not to mention hanging out with your friends, but you weren’t disappointed; it wasn’t like you were expecting anything different anyway. 

School wasn’t really the same anymore. People looked at you differently, talked behind your back, befriended you for no reason other than a chance to meet Hyuna. As if you had ever spoke to Hyuna anyway. You were just one trainee among dozens. You’d have to be a prodigy for her to notice you.  
After school meant training: dance practice, production classes, personality lessons, weekly evaluations. It also meant taking the subway again every single day. Your poor T-Money card drained faster than your stamina during a particularly strenuous choreo session. 

The few moments you had remaining at the end of the day were dedicated to jotting down a couple rushed answers to homework questions. And then it was time to crawl into bed in the little dorm you shared with a few other aspiring idols. You’d get a wink’s worth of sleep, wake up at the crack of dawn for the daily early morning jog, and trudge off to school again.

It stung in the good sort of way: the way that told you you were doing it right. It didn’t matter how many times you nearly dozed off in class because this was what you wanted, and you would grab hold of it if it was the last thing you ever did it.

***

When you were sixteen years old, you wanted to be an idol.

Her name was Song Yuqi, and she didn’t speak a lick of Korean, but now she was living in the same dorm as you. And that was alright, really. This Yuqi girl wasn’t so bad. She had more cuteness in her pinkie finger than you had in your entire body. She filled in all the parts you were missing, and if you ever got the chance to debut with her—if you ever got the chance to debut at all—you would probably hang on to her like a life preserver.  
That didn’t seem so bad either. This Yuqi girl gave good hugs. 

***

When you were seventeen years old, you wanted to be an idol. 

They sent you onto the first season of the girl group survival show, Produce 101. You weren’t too sure why—you were far from the prettiest or most talented trainee—but you accepted nonetheless. Opportunities like these were virtually priceless. You promised to do your very best.  
Three months later, they sent you on the third season of the rap competition show, Unpretty Rapstar. You had placed twentieth in Produce: good, but not good enough; you failed to make it to the final group. This time, you would do better. You promised. 

And you did. You placed second runner-up, obliterated Kool Kid, won those three tracks on the show’s final compilation album, and when you returned, Yuqi gave you a hug. Things were definitely looking up.

***

When you were eighteen years old, you wanted to be an idol. 

And you sure were close to becoming one. You signed your exclusive artist’s contract with Cube in December of last year. And in a couple months’ time, you would be debuting as a solo artist. You had the song ready and everything: handmade and saved on your computer. All that was left to do was wait.  
And, well, entertain your members. There were six total, including you: one leader, one sleepyhead, one mom-of-the-group, one crybaby, and one troublemaker. Oh, and Yuqi of course. Yuqi was your favourite. She gave good hugs. And she was cute. 

***

When you were nineteen years old, you became an idol.

Jelly was released in early November of 2017. Idle Song in February of 2018. For two songs that had little to no promotion, they did alright. But they got your foot in the door, and that was all that mattered. Plus, you got to shoot two music videos with Soojin. If that wasn’t a win, then you didn’t know what else was. 

But the real debut was yet to come. The real debut, or so they said, would be in May. But May was fast approaching, yet there was still no song ready, and as far as you knew, you couldn’t debut without a song. Well. It was time to get working, you supposed.  
(G)I-DLE debuted in May, just like you wanted it to. Your debut song, LATATA, handmade once again, amassed three music show wins. Yuqi hugged you a good fifty times that week. Things were going well. Things were going great.

And then things got even better. K/DA happened. To be frank, you honestly weren’t sure how it came to be in the first place. You weren’t complaining, though. No, not at all. Sharing a hamburger with sleepyhead, aka Miyeon, in Santa Monica while sipping on a funny little pouch-shaped drink that the Americans called Kool-Aid, whatever that meant, was always a win. 

***

Now, you are twenty years old. You are an idol. You are a singer, a dancer, a rapper. You are a leader. You like to think you’re a good daughter, a successful one, someone who heads back home to visit family whenever possible. You also like to think you’re a good friend, someone who treats her members out of kindness, someone who meets up with old classmates on the weekends. 

Soon you will be twenty-one years old. You will have done it all, even becoming a pirate. Well, almost all, that is. You still have yet to become a ninja. But you’ll get there eventually. 

You always do.


End file.
